5 Times Northern Ireland Wanted the Earth to Open Up and Swallow Him
by moonlighten
Summary: And five times it failed to do so, because Northern Ireland's just not that lucky. Or: July 2012 - July 2013: Northern Ireland's family tries, with varying degrees of success, to talk to him about his relationship with Iceland. (Northern Ireland/Iceland. Mentions of America/England and Scotland/France.) Multi-chapter, complete. Part 87 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. England

**July, 2012; London, England**

-  
Northern Ireland has tried lying on his back, his side, and his front. He's tried pulling his duvet up to his chin, and kicking it off onto the floor. He's tried two pillows, one pillow, and no pillows at all.

But none of it has done him any good. He still can't get comfortable, he still can't sleep, and his mind carries on racing round and around the same circular and thoroughly unproductive track, endlessly replaying the events of the evening.

It hadn't been disastrous, per se, just the sort of low-level awful he should have expected from that very first moment of madness wherein he decided that inviting Iceland to spend time with him whilst he was visiting England was a better prospect than suffering through yet another of their stilted conversations over shepherd's pie in Northern Ireland's flat.

That moment of madness wherein he temporarily forgot that England was far from the best third to add to any party if one wanted to avoid awkward pauses and keep the conversation flowing freely.

As it was, there had been plenty of talk as the three of them sat around the dinner table, but Northern Ireland had been cut out of it entirely whilst England mercilessly grilled Iceland about the minutiae of his working life as though he were conducting a job interview.

The tenor of his questions changed over dessert, segueing onto more personal matters such as how Iceland spends his free time and who with, and then again whilst they drank tea, whereupon it began to sound, mortifyingly, as though he was asking Iceland what his intentions towards Northern Ireland were.

If England still had his license, Northern Ireland was fairly certain a shotgun would have made its appearance at that juncture.

Afterwards, they had all watched a film together in stony silence, and as soon as the credits rolled - and even though it was only nine o'clock - England had escorted Iceland up to the guest bedroom like a warden leading a prisoner to their cell.

All in all, the lingering sense of embarrassment is in no way less intense than that Northern Ireland has experienced after hosting Iceland in Belfast before, it 's just a different kind.

He shifts again in the hopes of shaking it off, rolling onto his front again. It doesn't help, the embarrassment just follows along with him, and all his change in position succeeds in doing is putting enough pressure on his bladder that he can no longer ignore its demands as he's been trying his best to do for the past hour or so.

The long walk down from his attic room to the second floor bathroom always serves to wake him up fully, even when England isn't lurking in the darkened third floor hallway, waiting to pounce on him as he passes by.

"Jesus Christ!" Northern Ireland yelps, pressing a hand to his chest where it feels as though his heart is about to launch itself out through his ribcage. "What the fu—"

"Not so fast, young fellow-me-lad," England says with that horrible false-avuncular jollity he always directs towards Northern Ireland when he's nail-spittingly furious. "Where do you think you're going."

"To the toilet," Northern Ireland says, perplexed. He can't imagine how that could possibly anger his brother. Granted, they did have words in the past when England thought Northern Ireland was spending entirely too long in the bathroom, but that would hardly seem to matter at half-past-two in the morning. "Where else would I—"

"A likely story," England scoffs. "Come on. Back upstairs with you."

He grabs tight hold of Northern Ireland's elbow, and, ignoring his very reasonable protestations all the while, marches him straight back up to his bedroom again.

Once there, he directs Northern Ireland to sit down on the edge of the bed, whilst he wanders around the room for a time, studying, in turn, the Airfix planes hanging on strings from the ceiling, the collection of Matchbox cars on the shelf above Northern Ireland's desk, and Mr Bear, seated atop of the chest of drawers. He looks into the bear's shiny button eyes, and sighs heavily.

"North," he says to the bear, then, presumably realising his mistake, again in Northern Ireland's direction: "North."

He gingerly seats himself next to Northern Ireland, and his hand hovers uncertainly in the air between them for a moment, drifting first towards Northern Ireland's knee, then upwards to his shoulder, then up again to the crown of his head. Eventually, it settles there, and England begins, with all the tenderness of a badly-programmed robot, to haltingly card Northern Ireland's hair through his fingers.

On the rare occasions that his brothers do deign to bestow physical contact on him, all three of them tend to go for the hair, which Northern Ireland hates. Not only do they invariably mess it up, but it makes him feel as though he's being petted like a cat.

He ducks away from the contact, and England's hand hangs suspended in the air for a moment, fingers still clawed, before he lets it drop down to rest in his lap. He sighs again.

"North," he says for a thoroughly unnecessary third time. "I think we need to talk."

And, as is also the case with his brothers, those words only ever precede a lengthy silence interspersed with clearings of the throat. Northern Ireland knows from long experience that there's no way of hurrying the proceedings along, so he just waits, idly kicking his heels against the baseboard of his bed whilst he listens to England splutter like the engine of Scotland's Ford Escort.

"You're still so young," England says finally.

"Over ninety," Northern Ireland says, because his brother does have the tendency to forget that if not reminded of it at regular intervals. "I'd be getting a telegram from the queen soon if I was human."

His smile is met by a frown from England. "You know very well that's not the same thing. When I was your age—"

"You were still learning to walk," Northern Ireland says, rolling his eyes. He's heard that particular sentence roughly the same number of times as he's heard the story about America and Wales harp, which is around a hundred times too many. "But I'm not you, am I? I grew up a lot faster."

"Much too fast," England mutters under his breath. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that you're not as old as you think you are."

"I look old enough to get my provisional license, at least," Northern Ireland says, not wanting this fresh opportunity pass him by unexploited. "If _someone_ didn't keep asking for my date-of birth to be changed to—"

"North," England barks, "stop pissing around. You know this hasn't got anything to do with how you _look_. What matters is how _mature_ you are. And there are certain things I think you aren't anywhere close to being ready for." England blushes and stares very intently at the skirting board by the door. " _Intimate_ things."

Which is another conversation they've had far too often. Northern Ireland hasn't the first clue why England might have deemed it so necessary that they have it again that he'd ambush him with it in the middle of the night, except maybe... Oh.

 _Fuck_.

"England, I wasn't trying to sneak—"

"I know these things seem very... very _urgent_ at your age. When your hormones are raging and so on."

"Honestly, we're just frie—"

"But, believe me, your head _can_ overrule them."

"I don't—"

"It may be difficult - almost overwhelmingly so at times - but it is possible."

Northern Ireland doesn't even attempt to interrupt England again. His brother's built up enough of a head of steam over this that he'll just barrel on regardless until he's said everything he wants to say on the subject.

"There's no shame in waiting, North. I did, and..." England's lips pucker as though he has a bad taste in his mouth. "And, well, it didn't kill me, did it?"

Which is hardly a ringing endorsement for abstinence, as far as Northern Ireland's concerned, because England didn't 'wait' so much as he was 'conned into denying himself for centuries', and it might not have killed him, but he certainly never seemed happy in his self-imposed celibacy.

If Northern Ireland did actually intend on having sex at any time in the near future, England's example would probably persuade him into doing so sooner rather than later.

It seems pointless to remonstrate, either way, because the mental script that England's so clearly following will have included his responses, too, and his brother likely won't listen to him if he deviates from it in any way.

"Right," he says. "Great advice. Thanks, England. Waiting it is."

"Exactly! There's no sense in rushing these things." England smiles contentedly, then slings one arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders. He doesn't try and draw Northern Ireland any closer, and seems uncertain as to what he should be doing with his other hand again. It alights briefly on Northern Ireland's knee before England shoves it into one of his dressing gown pockets. The other hand swiftly follows. "Good lad; I knew you'd come around."


	2. America

**September, 2012; London, England**

-  
Chucking a ball back and forth has developed into an after-dinner tradition for Northern Ireland and America whenever the two of them happen to be staying at England's house at the same time.

Northern Ireland's not entirely sure _why_ , because, honestly, it's pretty boring.

The first couple of times, America had taken it a little too seriously, as if he were trying to mould Northern Ireland into an actual baseball player or something: pitching the ball low and wide, or high and so fast that Northern Ireland had sprained his shoulder and practically dislocated his fingers on the one occasion he did manage to catch it.

Most of the time, though, he'd ended up either chasing the ball as it rolled across the lawn, or poking through England's crowded flowerbeds in search of it.

Northern Ireland doesn't know whether it was England who demanded that America ease up a little - he'd certainly had a lot to say about the tragic fate of his poor, trampled primulas, and all of it very loud - or if America himself just grew tired of witnessing his sad display of complete ineptitude and took pity on him, but ever since then, their games of catch have been a much less strenuous pursuit.

Now, America launches the ball at a much more reasonable speed towards Northern Ireland's hand, instead of lobbing it directly at his face or angling it to fly straight over his shoulder, and Northern Ireland can catch it effortlessly.

He quite likes the satisfying leathery thunk that the ball makes as it lands in the palm of the catcher's mitt America had bought him, but other than that, there's not much to recommend the experience.

It's just an endless round of thunk, pitch, thunk, pitch, whilst America intermittently tosses in the odd 'Good catch!' or 'Nice throw' and England watches them from the kitchen window with glazed eyes and a faint smile on his face, doubtless hoping that America might again overheat from his mild exertions and take his T-shirt off .

This evening, though, there's something different. Something that Northern Ireland can't quite put his finger on, but makes him nervous all the same.

England seems pensive rather than lecherously anticipatory, and America isn't running an overly-enthusiastic commentary on the meagre action. In fact, he looks fairly sullen for him, his near-ever-present grin being a degree or two less dazzlingly bright than usual.

Northern Ireland hopes that they haven't had a falling out, or, even worse, are on the verge of splitting up. England has been so much more contented since he started dating America that he seems to have become an entirely new version of himself; a kinder, gentler version, who is a great deal less grouchy and miserable than he used to be. Northern Ireland likes the new version, and he doesn't want the old one to make a reappearance, for his brother's sake as well as his own.

So when America pauses mid-swing to say: "England thought you and I should have a talk," Northern Ireland's heart drops like a stone.

He feels slightly sick, slightly breathless, because he'd rather not be having this conversation; would much prefer to pretend it wasn't happening at all.

But he can hardly ignore America, not when he's standing only a few feet away and looking at him so expectantly, so Northern Ireland reluctantly asks, "What about?"

"I'm not really sure. He didn't say, exactly." America laughs a little self-consciously. "Guy stuff, I guess."

Northern Ireland assumes America's working off a different definition of 'guy stuff' than Scotland's, which is the one Northern Ireland is most familiar with. America's not interested in football, neither of them is much concerned with the relative lethality of home brews, and though they probably do both scratch their balls, that's not really something that needs discussing.

"What sort of 'guy stuff'?" he asks.

America glances towards the kitchen window, presumably seeking guidance from England, but there's obviously none to be found there. He shrugs. "I don't know. 'You might have noticed you're going through some changes', maybe? That sort of thing."

America's expression is terrifyingly earnest, and Northern Ireland can't bear to look at it. He stares down at the grass beneath his feet instead, whilst his stomach churns in cold horror.

"Yeah, I did. Back in the _eighties_. And England already..." Well, he and England didn't _talk_ about it then. England had marked several volumes of the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ with helpful post-it notes at the relevant sections and then left them in Northern Ireland's room, where it was silently understood that he would read them and become enlightened thus negating any need for _talking_. Northern Ireland had been perfectly happy with that arrangement, and he'd thought England was too. "Why does he want _us_ to talk about _that_?"

"He thinks you might be getting in over your head with something. He said I might be able to help."

Iceland again, no doubt. Northern Ireland's empty promise to wait clearly hadn't mollified him on that score. He probably won't be satisfied until Northern Ireland gets himself a fucking purity ring, like some of America's people do.

Maybe that's why he's roped poor America into this.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm fine. England's just worried I'm growing up to fast."

America laughs properly this time. "He was like that when I was a kid, too."

Northern Ireland's stomach gurgles unhappily again, if for entirely different reasons. Wales' reassurances that America and England being together wasn't quite so much Flowers-in-the-Attic creepy as it was Emma-Woodhouse-and-George-Knightley-'I-was-sixteen-years-old-when-you-were-born' weird might suffice most of the time, but they're not enough to keep him from feeling uncomfortable whenever he's reminded of their earliest associations with one another.

England might have been able to fully disassociate boy from man, as Wales' had said, but Northern Ireland still struggles to separate the America who burst noisily into his life after the Second World War from the misty, water-coloured young America who was the subject of so many of England's fondest reminiscences and also chief honouree of the well-preserved 'wean room', both of which were a constant fixture of Northern Ireland's own childhood.

But he's not likely to overcome that struggle right here and now - or, frankly, any time soon - and he's found the best way to deal with it in the interim is to just push it to the back of his mind, gloss over it, and move on.

"Ha ha," he says flatly. "He never changes, does he." Northern Ireland lifts his head, and forces himself to meet America's eyes. "Look, tell him he doesn't need to worry. Nothing's changed since the last time we spoke about... about all that. And it's not going to."

America beams, and then lopes towards Northern Ireland, his arms forebodingly outstretched.

Northern Ireland tries his best to avoid him by first backing away and then raising his own arms between them, but America's too fast and far, far too strong, and he has to resign himself to being smothered. Somehow, even though Northern Ireland's at least a couple of inches taller than America, he always ends up with his nose mashed against the side of America's neck when they hug. And America hugs like Scotland, which is akin to being constricted by a boa, Northern Ireland imagines.

He can barely breathe.

"Glad we got that all sorted out," America says, and there's a shaky, winded quality to his voice that leads Northern Ireland to suspect that what he's actually glad about is that it's all over.

England had probably been nagging him about this for days, if not weeks, and Northern Ireland can't really blame him for succumbing in the end. He knows how relentless his brother can be.

That thought compels him to squeeze America's shoulder in sympathy when America finally releases him from their embrace. This can't have been any easier on him than it has been on Northern Ireland, really. They've never been particularly close, and it's a fucking embarrassingly weighty subject to be expected to bring up with someone you only ever speak to a couple of times a year.

"Aye," Northern Ireland thus agrees heartily. "Me too."


	3. Scotland

**February, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
Ever since France left them to take one of his ridiculously protracted baths, Scotland has been throwing back whisky like water. His fingers haven't once paused in their drumming against the side of his glass, and he keeps slamming his feet down so forcefully against the floor that the entire sofa is shaking.

 _This is it_ , runs as a constant litany through Northern Ireland's mind. _This is finally it. He's going to literally_ explode.

His cheeks certainly look ready to pop, swollen again and again with the deep gulps of air he keeps sucking down in between the whisky. He keeps blowing out all that trapped air without saying anything, though. It's like sitting next to an enraged bull.

He snorts his way through the end Merlin and the whole National Lottery draw, and then suddenly, in the middle of Casualty, bursts out with: "England coddles you too much."

Northern Ireland doesn't entirely agree with that assessment. Granted, he might not care for England's occasional bouts of stifling over-protectiveness, and the continued blocking of his applications for a provisional license does still grate, but he'd have to give up too much in order to become as self-sufficient as Scotland thinks he should be - namely laundered clothes, home-cooked meals, and the odd tenner England provides on demand whenever Northern Ireland visits him - and he's not ready for that quite yet.

Scotland just talks over the top of him when he tries to say as much, though. "I know he's been getting on your case about... About your lad."

A couple of months ago, Northern Ireland could have said with confidence, 'He's not my lad,' and Scotland would doubtless have replied, 'Thank god for that,' and cheerfully gone on to forget whatever it is he's working himself up to say.

But the Northern Ireland of a couple of months ago hadn't shared a slightly damp cigarette with Iceland in the middle of the night. He hadn't noticed the way Iceland's lips move when they shape his name, nor the way his hair clings briefly to his fingertips whenever he brushes his hair out of his eyes.

The Northern Ireland of now's heart beats a little erratically at the mere idea of Iceland as being 'his lad'. He dreads to think what might happen if he actually tried to say it out loud.

So he says nothing, and Scotland's too busy with his twitching and glowering at nothing in particular to notice his hesitation, thankfully.

"I know England's got all these hang-ups about s..." It's the closest Northern Ireland's ever heard Scotland come to saying the word sex in his presence, but it seems that initial sibilant is as far as he's willing to go. His brother takes a few more deep, grunting breaths and another sip of whisky, but the rest of the word is not forthcoming. "All these hang-ups, but he shouldn't be taking them out on you."

Scotland screws his eyes closed, his face turning an even deeper shade of beetroot red. "When I was your age," he says falteringly, "I... Well, France and I had already been..." His voice cracks, thinning into silence. He downs the rest of the whisky in a single swallow, but it doesn't provide him with sufficient fortitude to continue, seemingly. Instead, he snarls, "Fuck it," slamming his empty glass down on the coffee table for emphasis. "Sorry, North; I can't do this. I'm going to go and get France, okay? He can take it from here."


	4. France

**February, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
As France's hair is still a little damp and he smells faintly of roses and incredibly expensive shampoo, Northern Ireland assumes that his bath wasn't a complete fabrication.

It clearly didn't last for the full two hours of his absence, however, as he's found time to do some baking, too. The fruits of his labours are small, plump pastries that are oozing chocolate and still steaming from the oven, and he brings a large plate piled high with them into the living room, along with a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and Scotland, who trails after him wearing the trepidatious expression of a man who fears the floor may give out beneath him at any moment and thus each step is a test of courage.

France plonks his cargo down on the coffee table, then curls up in the armchair opposite Northern Ireland, one elbow propped on the armrest beside him and his bare feet - which are an act of bravery in and of themselves, given the state of Scotland's kitchen floor - tucked under his arse.

Scotland lurks at his shoulder, fingers tapping against his thighs as he shifts his weight from his left leg to his right, right back to left again, over and over and over again. Looking at him makes Northern Ireland feel slightly seasick, but France regards his dizzying swaying with a fond smile.

Whatever dubious pleasure he's deriving from the sight swiftly palls, though, and he soon takes pity on Scotland, telling him: "You don't have to stay, _mon coeur_. I think I can manage from here on my own."

The kiss that Scotland plants on France's cheek smacks loud with gratitude, and he's gone before France has even finished making a dismissive gesture towards the door.

France chuckles, then stretches out to fill the two glasses with wine and slide the plate of pastries across the coffee table towards Northern Ireland.

They're likely a bribe, meant to soften him up for the torture he's sure awaits him, and Northern Ireland wants to push the plate right back in France's direction again and spurn its obvious manipulations. But they're such a delicious-smelling bribe that, in reality, he succumbs almost instantaneously; he just doesn't have the strength to will to resist.

He shovels three into his mouth in quick succession whilst France watches him indulgently, his eyes shining with delight. Northern Ireland has often thought that France takes more pleasure from other people enjoying his cooking than he does from eating it himself, even when they're making such a pig of themselves that their lap is covered by a light drift of pastry flakes.

Northern Ireland washes down the pastries with a swig of wine - which, disappointingly, tastes like shoe polish smells - and contemplates a fourth for a while before ultimately deciding against the idea when his stomach lodges a grumbling complaint, because, despite what England may believe to the contrary, it isn't actually bottomless.

France passes him a handkerchief to clean the melted chocolate off his fingers, and then asks, "And...? What did you think?"

"Delicious," Northern Ireland says, pointing at the plate, and then, at the wineglass, "Cleaning products."

France tuts. "We're going to have to work on improving your palate, _Nord_."

As has been the case on countless occasions over the last couple of years, it's on the tip of Northern Ireland's tongue to tell France to call him North. They've known each other since Northern Ireland was a baby and France is practically his brother-in-law; it's long overdue by now. But the tip of his tongue is where the request stays, because Northern Ireland really likes the way France rolls the r in _Nord_. Which is probably weird, but...

Okay, it's definitely weird, but Northern Ireland doesn't dwell on it overmuch. He's fairly certain that Scotland has a seventh sense for thoughts of that nature, and he'd prefer to keep his face in its current configuration if at all possible.

France drinks deep from his own glass, settles himself even more deeply amongst the chair's scattered cushions, and then digs up his fond smile once more. "Now..."

Northern Ireland must unwittingly cringe at even that one, innocuous word, because France shakes his head sadly. "There's no reason to look so scared, _mon petit_ ," he says. "This isn't meant to be a punishment. Scotland and I were simply concerned that _Angleterre_... Well, that he's filling your head with all sorts of unhelpful nonsense. It's perfectly natural—"

Northern Ireland's groan is entirely witting. "I know it is, France. I don't... I don't have any _hang-ups_ about... about sex, or whatever it is Scotland's fretting about. I just don't like talking about it, because... Well, it's private, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," France equivocates. "But that doesn't mean it should be a taboo subject. I've known your brothers a very long time, and all of them well enough that I'm certain it's something they've gone out of their way to avoid discussing with you. I presume _Angleterre_ just handed you a book when he felt the time was right and left it at that?"

"It was the Encyclopedia Britannica," Northern Ireland says, just to see the inevitable look of horror on France's face. "But it's not like I haven't got any other options. Wales and I have had a couple of conversations about" — condoms and sex toys that Northern Ireland is still trying his hardest to repress — "things. And Scotland..."

Northern Ireland hasn't the first clue why he said that name, except perhaps that it followed on naturally after mentioning both England and Wales. As Scotland is entire-chocolate-tea-set-level ineffectual when it comes to personal matters, he finds himself stalling.

France steps helpfully into the breach to provide: "Looks as though he's about to pass out if the subject is ever raised."

And then he laughs, in a blithe and genuinely amused-sounding fashion which suggests that Scotland's monk-like prudishness has never affected him personally; something which Northern Ireland has long suspected but never wanted or particularly needed confirmed.

"Besides," he says in all haste, so France doesn't have the chance to expand further, "I've got the internet and perfectly good Googling fingers. I'm _fine_ , France. All set."

France studies him for a moment with shrewdly narrowed eyes, and then says, "Okay. We'll say no more about it, then."

"Okay?" It bears repeating because Northern Ireland can scarcely believe it. "Is that it?"

"If that's what you want," France says. "I'm not going to force you to confide in me, _Nord_."

"You aren't?"

"Of course not," France says, looking a little offended that Northern Ireland had even needed to ask.

"Right," Northern Ireland breathes out unsteadily, shaky in his relief. He'd been dreading this conversation for _years_ now, ever since England and Wales started threatening it as if it actually were some kind of punishment whenever he asked awkward questions or didn't fancy listening to them bleating on about ribs and fucking _mess_.

His one moment of accidental French arse-appreciation had added another element of anxiety to the prospect, because he didn't want to risk strengthening his association between France and sex even the tiniest fraction of a degree. Judging by Scotland's example, it's a road he wants to avoid stepping so much as a foot upon if he can.

"But if you ever do want to talk," France says, "I'll be ready and willing to listen. And you can come to me if you ever feel as though you need advice about anything." He leans forward in his seat, angling his body closer to Northern Ireland's. "Anything at all, _Nord_. I'm almost impossible to shock."

"Thanks, France," Northern Ireland says, and he's poised to shove the offer down into the seldom visited part of his mind where everything else he'd rather not think about goes, but something about France's expression gives him pause.

France fussed over him when he was a baby, showered him with presents from afar through the years that he and Scotland were involved with each other but pretending not to be, and ever since they've sorted out their acts on that score, he's seized every possible opportunity to encourage, cajole, or tut Northern Ireland into bettering himself that he can.

This pattern of behaviour had led Northern Ireland to conclude some time ago that France must be lacking in sufficient alternative opportunities to vent his pent up big-brotherly impulses otherwise, leaving him to bear the brunt of them.

And he'd thwarted France in that already, and not long ago, by agreeing to have cooking lessons with Romano instead of him. France had stiff-upper-lipped through his response to the news, but Northern Ireland could tell he was disappointed, all the same. And he doesn't want to disappoint him again. Not so soon afterwards, anyway.

But with Scotland's seventh sense and _arses_ looming large, Northern Ireland is eager to leave the topic of sex behind them as quickly as possible, never mind that there's probably no better person to ask how best to approach Iceland with the thorny issue of his changing feelings on the platonic nature of their relationship.

So he wracks his brain for something, _anything_ , else he might plausibly need France's advice ab—

"Eyebrows," he blurts out upon the sudden realisation that there's yet another way he's disappointed France, along with the rest of his siblings. And for decades, at that.

"What about them?" France asks, frowning and clearly baffled by the outburst.

"Well, you've always said that I should do something about them." And Northern Ireland's always feared that the process would be a painful one, but it seems a small sacrifice to make at this juncture. "I want you to show me how. I think I should try and look my best for my..."

'Boyfriend' proves just as difficult to say than 'my lad', and Northern Ireland has to resort to a vague hand gesture and trust that France will fill in the blank.

France's face practically glows with happiness. He's probably had a pair of tweezers on standby since their invention. "Gladly," he says, leaping to his feet and beckoning for Northern Ireland to follow him. "Come with me."


	5. Wales

**22nd June, 2013; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
Wales has been holding out on Northern Ireland.

Whilst his mouth might have been saying, 'I'm so sorry, _Gogledd_ ; I have absolutely no idea how we should go about changing these ridiculous sham relationships we've found ourselves in into real ones', it seems his mind was busily working on the problem behind the scenes, because his body had ended up pressed against Romano's in a hotel car park.

As they'd spent the previous four days cooped up in either that same hotel or Scotland's vile car, breathing down one another's necks, and Scotland had spent almost the full hour and a half of their drive back to Belfast whingeing about being forced to witness Wales and Romano's incredibly brief parting kiss, Northern Ireland had presumed that even Wales would have reached the limits of his generous supplies of patience and grown sick of brotherly togetherness for the time being.

But his request - shouted over Scotland's voluble complaints about the lack of parking spaces outside his flat - to pay Wales a visit that weekend had been met with what sounded to be sincere delight on Wales' part.

He seems to have spent the entirety of the past couple of days baking in preparation.

"I've been trying to keep myself busy," he says by way of an explanation for the towering stacks of tupperware containers covering his kitchen counters. "There's a chocolate cake in the... I think it's in the box with the green lid. Help yourself to a slice, if you like." He laughs a little shrilly. "Or two or three. As you can see, I've hardly got a shortage of cakes."

Although Wales hasn't quite mastered whatever alchemical wizardry it is that France insists is necessary to produce perfect baked goods, his efforts seldom resemble geological formations in the same way England's do. Accordingly, Northern Ireland cuts himself an extremely generous slice of the chocolate cake after he manages to ferret it out. An experimental bite reveals it to be sickly sweet, if slightly too dry. All it needs is some tea to help wash it down.

And there's plenty of that on offer, too. Wales has already made Northern Ireland two cups in the hour since he arrived, and there's a full teapot waiting on the kitchen table.

Ominously, it's the teapot Cerys made in her pottery class. The one Wales rarely uses; for practical reasons as well as sentimental as she'd obviously struggled with making the spout and it dribbles - along its entire length - rather than pours.

The only time it makes an appearance is when Wales is in one of his _moods_ , and has been wallowing in the memories of his lost loves because the current one has disappointed him in some way. Evidentially, his kiss with Romano had not been as auspicious as Northern Ireland assumed.

Still, a kiss definitely occurred, which is more than Northern Ireland can say for himself, so Wales must still have some words of wisdom to share with him, even if they're not particularly good ones.

It will probably be a trial to get them out of him, though, as any direct mention of Romano is liable to set him off on a crying jag if his past behaviour is any indication. Northern Ireland will have to tread carefully, delicately, and—

"Did you want to talk about what happened between Romano and me at the summit?" Wales says suddenly, catching Northern Ireland so much by surprise that he forgets for a humiliatingly long time what his answer to that question should be.

"Yes?" he summons up eventually. It sounds about right.

"Fine." Wales nods placidly. "Let's sit down and have a cup of tea, shall we? I'll be mother."

After a great deal of swearing, and a swift detour to the sink to run cold water over his scalded hand, Wales manages to half-fill two mugs, which they drink in silence whilst Northern Ireland demolishes his chocolate cake and Wales picks at his own slice of Victoria sponge.

When both plates and mugs are empty and he has nothing left to distract him, Wales sighs and then says, "Romano and I... We're... I wouldn't exactly say that we're doing _better_ than we were before, but things _are_ different. Certainly no worse, anyway."

"You haven't split up, then?" Northern Ireland asks. He'd misjudged the significance of the teapot, clearly.

"No," Wales says. "But we're not really together, either. At least, I don't think so. It looks like I'm going to have to wait until August to find out for sure, though."

"But something did change, didn't it?" Northern Ireland asks, thoroughly confused now. "You don't normally kiss him."

From the pinking of Wales' cheeks, Northern Ireland concludes that what had changed was that they'd had sex. Yet one more fact to add to the annals of 'Information He Wished He Didn't Have to Know'.

"Okay," he continues, "I don't want to hear the details, obviously, but you did say you'd help me move things along with Iceland. You must have some better ideas on how to do that now, right?"

Wales shrugs. "I just did what I should have done a long time ago, and put all my cards on the table. I let him know I felt, and left it up to him how to take things from there."

Which is of no use to Northern Ireland, because that's exactly where his problem lies. "I've tried to do that, Wales," he says, "but I have no idea what to say. I open my mouth but nothing comes out, and I was hoping that there was some... some magic word or other that'd work, I guess."

"Sadly, there aren't any as far as I'm aware, _Gogledd_ ," Wales says, proving, yet again, that magic isn't worth the copious, dusty reams of paper it's written on. "You'll just have to use your own, I'm afraid." He straightens up in his chair and smiles encouragingly. "I could help you practice, if you like."

"Practice?"

"I thought you could pretend I was Ice—"

"Jesus! No, Wales," Northern Ireland says, shaking his head vigorously. "That isn't going to help."

"How can you possibly know that if you don't try?" Wales asks, which Northern Ireland has to admit is a perfectly reasonable question despite his instinctive revulsion towards the idea. "Come on, what would you want to say to Iceland if he was sitting here in my place."

"I..." Northern Ireland attempts gamely, but that's as far as he seems able to get whilst looking directly at Wales. He closes his eyes, but there must be something inherently Wales-y about the way his brother breathes, because he still finds it impossible to imagine anyone else in his brother's place.

And what he wishes he had the words to tell Iceland, he definitely wouldn't want Wales to hear.

"Sorry, Wales," he says. "I can't do it."

"Never mind," Wales says. "At least you tried. I suppose you'll just have to practice by yourself. In front of the mirror, maybe. Oh, and getting your thoughts down on paper first might help, too. That usually works for me."

"Is that what you did with Romano?"

"No, I got drunk and blurted out the first thing that came into my head." Wales chuckles. "That might work too, in a pinch. No matter how much you think about it, or practice, you probably won't be able to find the perfect words. I'm not sure there are any.

"You'll just have to decide if it's worth the risk of perhaps saying the wrong thing, or even sounding a bit foolish. At the end of the day, the worst that can happen is that he turns you down."

"I don't know," Northern Ireland says, trying to sound nonchalant and not at all like a person who's been obsessing over this exact scenario, "I could sound so stupid that he laughs at me and then turns me down."

"Ah, yes." Wales smiles ruefully. "I was worried about that with Romano, too."

"And did he laugh?"

"Surprisingly, no," Wales says, "even though I sounded pretty fucking stupid that night. And Romano's not what I'd call... Well, Iceland seems like a nice lad. If Romano didn't laugh at me, I doubt he'd laugh at you."

Which is probably true, and it should be a comforting thought, but Northern Ireland still can't quite manage to shake that image. He fears it might just have become too deeply ingrained by now. "I don't know, Wales..."

Wales sighs again. "You're going to have to hold your nose and take the plunge some time. When are you seeing Iceland next?"

"Middle of next month." In Belfast, against Northern Ireland's better judgement, but Iceland had put him on the spot and he hadn't had been able to think of a decent excuse to meet up at England's again instead.

"Then I suggest you take that opportunity, and seize the day," Wales says. "This could end up stretching out for centuries if you let it. I've been there, and, trust me, it'll be a hell of a lot easier on you to get an answer now, even if it doesn't end up being the one you want."

As that day's only three weeks away, the thought of seizing it makes Northern Ireland break into a panicky cold sweat. If it was three _months_ away, then maybe he'd have chance to pluck up enough courage. Or, better yet, three years, and... Fuck, centuries is probably just Wales using hyperbole for effect, but Northern Ireland could see himself dragging it out for a decade or two if he doesn't get his arse in gear. As he only sees Iceland a few times a year, it'd be worryingly easy for the time to just slip away from him.

"Maybe I will," he says, hedging his bets because three months does still seem like the more achievable goal, regardless.


	6. Northern Ireland

**July, 2013; Belfast, Northern Ireland**

-  
Northern Ireland has practiced his speech to thin air. He has practiced it in front of the mirror. He has even, to his unending shame, performed it to an audience consisting of Mr Bear and a small group of his fae, whom he usually does his best to ignore. The fae, at least, had seemed entranced by it, but as they can't understand any English words beyond 'Piss off', 'Fuck off' and other variations around the theme of 'Leave me alone', that likely signified nothing.

Mr Bear had been unmoved.

He has written the speech down countless times, too, as Wales had suggested, tweaking a word choice here, rearranging a sentence there, with every iteration. He's typed it out and written it longhand: in pencil and pen; in his normal chicken scratch hand and the elegant copperplate that England taught him and he hasn't otherwise used for over thirty years.

One night, when his thoughts were muddled from lack of sleep and he'd been writing for so long that his hand was moving as if on auto-pilot, he'd caught himself in the midst of composing a poem. He'd ripped up the paper immediately, burnt the resulting scraps, then washed their ashes down the sink.

From the first moment he started not just noticing but _appreciating_ ridiculous shit like eyelash shadows, he had dreaded that the onset of poetry might turn out to be its natural and terrible conclusion. He intends to fight that particular genetic horror every single step of the way, though. He's not going to let it become a habit.

Accidental poetry aside, Northern Ireland is pleased by how his preparations have gone. Three weeks of constant revisions have made the speech as perfect as it's ever going to be. He can recite it from memory now, without a single stumble. He's ready, he's able, and after downing a tumbler of whisky, he's brimful of courage, too.

He feels confident that he can grab tight hold of the day with both hands and bend it to his will.

At least he does until Iceland arrives at his door, wan and rumpled from a long day of listening to very boring people telling him very boring things at his consulate. He looks as though the last thing he could possibly want is to listen to Northern Ireland talk about his very boring feelings on top of it all.

Instead Northern Ireland makes sure that Iceland is comfortably ensconced on the sofa, fetches him a cup of coffee, and then hurries off to dish up the cottage pie - he's branching out a little, if only because minced beef was on offer this week - all of which was supposed to happen _after_ the speech had been successfully delivered.

They eat in front of the TV, to the accompanying dulcet background notes of an old episode of _Red Dwarf_. Iceland seems disinclined to talk, offering only monosyllabic answers to Northern Ireland's tentative questions about his work day, so they end up eating the cottage pie and then dessert in stolid silence.

By the time Northern Ireland has tided the dirty dishes and plates away, and made himself some tea and Iceland another coffee, the whisky has begun to wear off, leaving space for doubts to creep back in. The moment doesn't seem quite so right any more. Perhaps it's just too difficult to feel romantic with a stomach full of mince and mashed potato.

So he decides to give himself a moment or two to digest, but that moment somehow stretches out to encompass a couple more episodes of _Red Dwarf_ without him noticing, during which the remainder of the whisky has up and evaporated entirely from his system, seemingly.

He's all out of false bravado, but he tries to scrape together enough of the true stuff to launch into the speech, regardless.

Though he does succeed in opening his mouth and forcing out Iceland's name a few times, when Iceland turns towards him in response, his words dry up and scatter to the wind, because there was one thing he failed to account for in all his practice runs of this evening.

The fae, Mr Bear, his own reflection: none of them say _Norður_ like Iceland does, their eyes don't shadow like his do when they tilt their head up and back and their face catches the light, and their hair doesn't fall in the same way, brushing soft against the tips of his ears and the top of his shirt collar.

Northern Ireland doesn't know why those things affect him so much - and he wishes that they didn't - but they do, and it's completely unconducive to speech.

Still, he can hardly sit there and gape like a stunned fish after attracting Iceland's attention, so each time he finds himself offering to fetch Iceland yet another thing to better provide for his comfort, because all higher thought and rationality might have fled, but he has decades of England's dogmatic lessons behind him, and his principles of etiquette and proper hosting have sunk so deep into Northern Ireland's marrow by now that they've become a reflex action.

He's brought Iceland so many different drinks and snacks that his coffee table is groaning under the weight of them; dragged in the duvet from his bed when Iceland mentioned he was a little chilly, then taken it away again when his face started to flush; plumped cushions and started several different films running until he found one that elicited what appeared to be a genuine expression of enthusiasm instead of polite interest.

It's nearing nine o'clock now, and the speech is no closer to happening. Northern Ireland fears it never will if unless he can think of a way to jolt himself out of the inertial rut he's managed to carve through the evening.

His mind supplies only two ideas:

One: Give words up on words entirely and let his body talk for him. Move closer to Iceland and perhaps do the old yawn-stretch-one-armed-hug routine that... That is stupid, and clichéd, and probably doesn't work in real life. He'd probably just startle Iceland and thus run the risk of getting punched

And two: Remove himself from Iceland's presence for a while, so he can reassess, regroup, and hopefully get the fuck over himself when he's not being distracted by every single sound and fucking movement Iceland makes.

He gets to his feet.

"I don't need anything else," Iceland is quick to tell him.

"No, it's... I'm just going..." There's only one place Northern Ireland can plausibly go. He should have thought this through better. "Bathroom," he mumbles over his shoulder as he scurries away.

He slams the bathroom door closed behind him, locks it, and then sits down heavily on the edge of the bath, fighting to get his breathing back under control.

Once he's stopped gasping, he pulls out the copy of his speech that he's taken to carrying around in the back pocket of his jeans, and reads it through, hoping that the fresh infusion of words will help cement them in the forefront of his mind once more.

But a little distance and a great deal of panic seem to have wrought a dreadful change to the speech. He'd never noticed before, when he was so closely focused on the details and not the whole of the thing, but - even without a rhyming scheme - he writes like _Wales_.

It's flowery, overblown nonsense, and nothing at all like he normally speaks.

He thinks he can probably still salvage _something_ from the wreck of it, though, so he takes out the stub of a pencil that has also been a constant companion to him of late, and starts making some revisions.

He loses all sense of time and place to them, and when Iceland interrupts his frenzied scribbling by knocking on the bathroom door, it honestly startles him, as he'd almost forgotten he wasn't alone in the flat.

"Are you okay in there?" Iceland calls out, which leads Northern Ireland to believe he's been holed up for an embarrassingly long time.

Great. It probably seems as though he's suffering from bowel troubles or something, which isn't exactly the best ambiance into which to deliver the speech, old or new.

"I'm fine," he calls back, cringing.

"Film's finished," Iceland says. "I'm going to go back to my hotel before I end up passing out on your couch."

Northern Ireland would like to tell him, 'I wouldn't mind if you did,' but what actually comes out of his mouth is, "I'll walk you to the door," because that's safe. That's the routine. It's how Iceland's infrequent visits to his flat always end.

And moreover, it's easy. His heart doesn't race when he leads Iceland to the front door, it doesn't skip when he opens it, and his voice doesn't falter when he asks, "Meet you for lunch tomorrow?"

And neither does Iceland when he says, "Yes," nor when he leans in and kisses Northern Ireland so casually it's as if he'd done the same thing a hundred times before.

None of Northern Ireland's careful plans had accounted for this. It had seemed too presumptuous to expect that it might happen; belonging in some far distant future in which he'd learnt to say the right things and act the right way to lay the groundwork for it first.

As such, he just freezes, stock still in the open doorway, one hand still curled around the door handle and the other arm hanging limply against his side.

His mouth must keep moving of it's own accord, though, whilst his brain takes a sojourn to parts unknown, because the kiss lingers a while before Iceland steps back and breaks it, and he's smiling when he does, so it must have been moving in something approximating the right way.

"Are you all right?" Iceland asks, after another frozen moment wherein Northern Ireland simply stares at him because he can't think what else to do.

"Aye," Northern Ireland eventually dredges up from somewhere. "Grand. I just didn't... I wasn't expecting that."

"Really?" Iceland says, sounding surprised for no real reason that Northern Ireland is able to fathom.

"Really."

"And it was okay?" Iceland asks. There's doubt creeping into his voice now, and his smile is dimming.

Northern Ireland would like to tell him it was more than okay, that he'd been worrying and wondering for months how the hell he was ever going to get them here himself, but his words seem to have dried up to such an extent that all he can manage is another, "Grand."

It's probably the shock.

Iceland has been his friend long enough by now that he must know that Northern Ireland is next to useless for talking much sense when his vocabulary has dwindled to such a degree, and as such any further attempts at conversation are likely to amount to nothing.

He takes his leave with, "I'll see you tomorrow, then," and without a second kiss, which is probably for the best.

Northern Ireland watches him walk away down the corridor outside his flat, and then, after he's disappeared from view down the staircase at the end of it, stares blankly at the wall opposite his door until his brain finally spirals out of its holding pattern and splutters back into life once more.

With that returning vitality comes the realisation that his lunch with Iceland tomorrow won't be the same as usual now, either. Now, it's likely going to be a _date_.

He hurries back inside his flat to ring Wales.


End file.
